


A challenge of an intimate nature is proposed, then accepted.

by Barkour



Series: Red All Over [3]
Category: Baccano!
Genre: 1930s, Canon - Anime, F/M, Post-Canon, Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 16:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't swing?" Claire turned to her. "Well, then what kind of dancing do you do?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A challenge of an intimate nature is proposed, then accepted.

**Author's Note:**

> Post-series; they're dating.

"You don't swing?" Claire turned to her. Dark though the smoke-dim dance hall, she found the arch of his brow, the rounded whites of his eyes. "Well, then what kind of dancing do you do?"

Chane looked over their own shadowed corner of the hall: a table blocked the left, but the floor was clear. She took four precise steps forward, then turned sharply on her heel, drawing out the low slide of her hips.

Claire whistled, a sinking note that started high. "I never seen that one before," he said. He grinned at her. His eyes shone red like the hair sweeping his brow. Chane looked down to her feet.

The bandleader struck up another song, faster now. Someone near laughed, then someone else laughed as well, and all around Chane, they danced: the men in their spatted shoes, women in thin dresses that showed their calves.

Claire touched her arm. She started, turning quickly round. He smiled. His hand on her arm was lightly placed, but the weight of his thumb on her skin was profound.

"Hey, listen," he said, loudly to be heard over the heavy swing of the sax. "I got an idea. How about you teach me that thing, and I teach you how to swing. It'll be easy. You're pretty sharp on your feet."

Her heart came too quick. She held her face still. His hand rested loose at her elbow now. Very deliberately Chane glanced down at his feet, then raised her gaze slowly up the length of him. He dressed cleanly, but richly, the simple cut of his dress belying the expense of the cloth and the manufacture.

She met his eyes. The freckles scattered thick across his cheekbones, down in a stream along his throat, were dark: how he'd reddened under her appraisal. Chane raised her eyebrows in a delicate line.

"Oh, a challenge, huh," he said. He drew nearer, so the toe of his shoe touched hers. He lowered his chin, evening the distance. Beneath the freckles, he was still red. "I should warn you, I don't ever lose, except at poker."

Chane tipped her head away. Her hair fell black against her cheek, and Claire stepped closer again and reached out to brush her hair behind her ear. She held his gaze and did not break it. His grin returned.

"All right, then," he said. "If you wanna go first."

Chane turned on her heel once more and led him out to where the smoke thinned and the lights brightened, and the roar of the music pounded against her skin, in her blood.


End file.
